Smoke and Mirrors. . . .

In the last two weeks I've seen three French movies. I may never see another movie in English again. Having said that, can I wait for the French version of Toy Story 3? Probably not, and that one's a must see. I saw 'Leaving' with the gorgeous francophile, Kristen Scott Thomas (in the game 'Who Would Play Me In The Movie'...I'm having her), Heartbreaker with the uber-gorgeous Roman Duris and then I was lucky enough to go to a screening of 'Gainsbourg' followed by a chat with the oh-so gorgeous director, Joann Sfar, even with his shaven head and broadening waistband, he had me at bonjour......it's the French thing. And the film is great, well I think it's great: funny, poignant and pleasing to the eye, Joann has done a masterful job. He talked of the difficulties of making a movie about France's most iconic icon, national treasure, local hero, enfant terrible and all round artiste, in a funny and frank fashion; of the pleasure of working with Kacey Mottet Klien, who brilliantly plays Serge the boy, and the extraordinary Eric Elmosnino who becomes the Gitanes smoking man-on-a-mission to self-destruct. He also spoke movingly about the tragic loss of the talented, young actress, Lucy Gordon, who committed suicide before the film's release. She artfully conjures up the spirit of Jane Birkin and the passion of her relationship with Serge. The film is dedicated to Lucy.

I have a friend who does a brilliant impression of a French film, she hates foreign films, 'Pourquoi Pascal, pourquoi, pourquoi.......big sigh.....parce que'. I love them for just that reason, that's the joy of the foreign film: the long pauses, random shots, sudden endings. It's all good. And foreign films don't fear the older woman, they're even allowed to have sex. I kid you not, check out 'Leaving' for hot'n'heavy, steamy scenes when the 50 year old Kristen gets her kit off.........

Actually, I'm a sucker for all sorts of movies, there is for me no greater joy than disappearing into the dark to settle down with Pearl & Dean and what's coming soon, before 'the big picture' transports me away from the daily grind, the dodgy boiler and the mounting bills. What greater guilty pleasure is there than a week-day matinee, playing hooky from real life, especially if it's a sunny day, the cardinal sin. When I first moved to LA I hated it, so sort solace in the multiplex at the Beverly Centre, hiding in the dark from the endless fine weather, seeing up to 3 movies a week. It was much cheaper than London so I saw anything and everything: the soft-opening of 'Four Weddings and a Funeral' that became the summer hit, 'Shindler's List' on Fairfax surrounded by real Holocaust survivors, an all singing, all dancing Disney extravaganza at Mann's Chinese on Hollywood for the opening of 'The Little Mermaid'. They love their cinema in LA.

Now, the Everyman Group has taken over all sorts of picture palaces and transformed their battered interiors and shabby, under-stuffed, snap-happy seats, imbued with the musty whiff of so many rain-sodden umbrellas and damp macks, and they've transformed them into emporiums of smoked mirrors and soft furnishings. The sofa cinemas have a bar and waiter service and the most expensive snacks known to man; like an exotic hidden nightclub, in an alley somewhere off La Rue de Realite, the neon light draws you in. I kind of miss my dusty, dim old cinema, but watching a movie on the big screen, sprawled on a velvet sofa, a glass of wine in hand, what could be better.............perhaps a Gitane?

Top tip: Treat yourself to a movie, preferably a matinee.

Do or Dye......

Is it me or is Rupert Everett looking more and more like Sam the Eagle, from the Muppets, with that beaky nose and down-turned mouth? Don't get me wrong, I like Sam and I have a soft spot for Rupert. When I lived in New York we used to breakfast together at my favourite cafe in the West Village, Les Deux Gamin. I say 'together' but it was more along the lines of sharing the same, small space, indeed often the same table. (Several tables in fact, it's not called a village for nothing, I was once accidentally engaged in conversation by Caroline Bassett Kennedy in 'Tea & Sympathy', when she mistook me for Ruper's lunching companion, but that's a whole other story....) This was just before the heady period post-My Best Friend's Wedding, when he loitered in the shadows of his once glorious hey-day. He wore a battered-leather flying jacket, tousled hair with a hint of grey and was always accompanied by his dog, Moise, a black lab, with whom he would share his petit dejeuner. Ordering in French, he usually had the 'Tartine': two, long shanks of toasted baguette, homemade jam and unsalted butter. He would read, I would write.We both drank coffee. And he looked pretty damn good before his return to the spotlight and the ubiquitous hair dye. Why is it, no matter how rich or famous a man might be, if he dyes his hair, it always has the same plummy, chestnut hue. From Paul McCartney to Ricky Gervais, they all look awful. Watching Rups, sporting a matching beard and hair combo, on 'Who Do You Think You Are', the other night, I was reminded of one of those upside down heads.......an upside down head that looked a lot like Sam the Eagle.

You'd think with gorgeous George Clooney leading the way, and our own Phillip Schofield keeping it real, no man would waste his time or money getting a full-head of highlights or opting for the all over conker-glow so beloved of the midlife males in crisis. From the salt and pepper sprinkle to the silver-fox mop-top, men should just luxuriate in the fact that their sex looks good in grey.

Top tip: Perfect summer movie? Go see Hearbreaker, Vanessa Paradis is Johnny Depp in a dress, Romain Duris is drop-dead gorgeous and it's very, very funny.

Rock of ages............

And then a man in drag with the glossy-lipped head of a female manikin strapped to this his chest, teetered slowly but deliberately in his high heels, across the makeshift stage, in what was definitely the weirdest show of the night. The best: a woman performing an hilarious 'drunken' striptease, while simultaneously keeping 7, yes 7, hoops moving independently around various bits of her body. Extraordinary. I was standing in a wood, drinking a Mojito, at about half one in the morning having accidentally come to Latitude..........

Continuing my pop-up summer, I had only discovered that Saturday morning, that instead of caging a day pass to the festival, I had weekend tickets and camping in the performer's area. Now, despite my embargo on all things tent-related, I've never been one to pass up a pass, especially when it involves a 'hospitality bar' and the all important 'porta-loo'.....

So it was, my friend and I found ourselves running around an underground car park in Euston at 5 to 1 in a desperate attempt to hire a car before it closed at 1. An hour later we still hadn't got out of second gear and we'd eaten the picnic before we'd passed the last tube stop. But eventually, with the clouds lifting and the sun shinning, we finally exited London, unleashing the might of the Clio, we roared up the A12.

While I stood staring at the bits of tent and peg my friend proudly inflated her automatic, heart-shaped, inflatable-double-bed. Having never planned to camp again I hadn't retained any erecting-knowledge. I'd also lent it to a friend the week before, to go to another festival; it now appeared to have been returned with only half the pegs, bent at unamusing angles. Eventually it was up, secured by it's one remaining guy-rope, and my friend realised the automatic, heart-shaped, inflatable-double-bed wouldn't fit through the opening, so she had to deflate it and start again, by which time our fellow-fetivalees had us pegged as a couple of inept, lesbian campers....

Hot, and not a little bothered, all our worries floated away like dust-mots in the Suffolk evening, sunshine, once we'd ordered our first pint in an eco-friendly, reusable, plastic beaker. I came to the first ever Latitude 5 years ago, just a few thousand folk and a flock of painted sheep. That was a spur of the moment idea too and we broke down on the way. But being newly in love, I didn't blame my boyfriend for being an idiot in a car with a colander for a radiator, I just laughed, coquettishly of course. The tow-truck driver had dropped us at Ipswich station before taking the car back to London, and with the hot sun high in the blue sky, we ran down the platform, just in time to catch the last train to the festival. It was all very Richard Curtis. The last time I came, Latitude had grown to five times it's original size while our love had shrunk, and I knew then me and the boyfriend would not be coming back, together, again.

As I have already said, camping without drink and drugs is just not humanly possible. So, sleep under canvas had all but alluded me. However, watching a suited and booted, Marcus Brigstocke chow down on a full-English, while I main-lined coffee, provided the first entertainment of the day. Next up was Tom Jones doing an un-scheduled, Sunday morning set on the main stage. Biblical. We also saw Steve Mason, Mumford and Sons, Charlotte Gainsbourg and Belle and Sebastian, opera in the woods, a play in a tent and the sublime La De Dahs singing such classics as Eminem's 'Lose Yourself', in the style of The Andrews Sisters. And we barely scratched the surface, there is so much stuff. And a lot of people. Notting Hill must have been empty, the streets of Clapham Old Town deserted, tumbleweed blowing down Stoke Newington Church Street, Latitude is what it is. They even turn the water features into multi-coloured fountains from which emanate magical images, sort of acid-lite: all the fun of a trip for those over 40.........

Top Tip: Make your own festival: kick back with a cocktail in the garden and lose yourself in Tom Jones's Praise and Blame.

The secret life of lost things.....

I've lost my cardigan. Not just any old cardigan, my Luella Bartley cardigan. In the style of a twinset, a fine silk/wool mix of golden caramel with the little black, bat wing motif above the left breast, I loved that cardigan. It was the first new thing I bought after the great heartbreak of 2008. Something he'd never seen but that he, being a label junkie, would have loved. Ha ha. It was the beginning of a new me. It made my whole day a good day. I called it the cardigan of joy. Not only that, but I bought it for a snip at the Kids Company charity jumble sale, brand new kit, donated by the designers, all the proceeds go to charity. I also bought a Marc Jacobs skirt, £40 reduced from £500, it's no ordinary jumble sale, check out their website for the next one. I called it the skirt of happiness and wore it with the cardigan of joy. It was the cardigan that kept on giving.

Now the skirt's all on it's own. And the worse thing is, I don't know how I lost it. My cousin loses things on an almost daily basis: buggies left standing as she speeds off in the car, (after loading the kids in first of course), rings roaming free in bathrooms across the world, sunglasses, hats, coats hung on backs of long forgotten doors. I don't. And although the regularity of loss does little to dull the pain, she does at least have the 'oh-no-I've-left-it-in.....' moment. But this loss is a mystery. Frankly, it's just not possible. It was hot. I put the cardigan in my bag (red, felt, Vivienne Westwood warehouse sale) I bought Aspirin from Sainsburys Local, picked up my skirt (Antoni & Alison patchwork, pencil skirt, designer charity sale) from the dry cleaners and walked around the corner, home. The cardigan was gone. I've been back to Sainsburys and the dry cleaners. 3 times. WHERE IS IT? The bag is a deep, bucket of a bag, it couldn't possibly have fallen out, did some fashinista-felon sneak up, dig deep past the empty lunchtime tub of cous cous, ignore the bulging purse of pound coins, intent only on designer knit ware? Or did the cardi simply escape? Seize the opportunity when my back was turned, to leap out, arms flailing in the fresh air, and make a bid for freedom? To dance, unencumbered by a human body, in the bright sunlight before becoming impaled on a wrought-iron railing. Refusing to ever go back in the closet, fearing the day when it would lose the love it now enjoyed, banished to the dark end, no longer allowed to hang with Marc, Viv or Joe. Or worse. To be carted off to the charity shop and have to share rail space with Dorothy Perkins.........

My friend's husband was idly fiddling with his wedding ring one day, while they sped down the 405 in LA. Quite suddenly it 'blew' away. Gone for good across 6 lanes of traffic. They let it go. A year later, while holidaying in the Turks and Caicos Islands he found a man's wedding ring on the beach. It fitted and, dear reader, he wares it to this day.

Top tip: I recently discovered the soon-to-be-axed Six Music. I loved it and now it's been given a reprieve. I like to think me tuning in helped it not to drop out. Check it out and let Lauren Laverne make every day a sunny one.